


setting fire to our insides for fun

by bathildabagshott



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e08 Visionary, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-01
Updated: 2013-08-01
Packaged: 2017-12-21 22:58:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bathildabagshott/pseuds/bathildabagshott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles couldn’t help, albeit selfishly, but to compare Derek’s situation to his own. Of course they were completely different. Obviously Stiles couldn’t relate to the whole werewolf thing or the alpha thing or the mercy killing thing or well, most of it to be honest, but he understood the emotions that came with the death (or deaths, plural, in Derek’s case) of loved one(s), and he especially understood the guilt that came with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	setting fire to our insides for fun

**Author's Note:**

> ep 8 gave me an idea of how derek and stiles could (canonly) go from not caring about the each other to sort-of-kind-of friends (not included: lots of make outs and comfort cuddles). sorry about the pain and lack of dialogue.

With Peter’s story still coursing through his thoughts, his mind almost instinctually dissecting it into levels of importance, Stiles drove himself home from Derek’s loft. He figured Scott would call him once he was done talking to Gerard. He held back a snort as he thought of how thankful he was that he didn’t have to sit through that fiasco. Peter had given him enough of a headache thank you, he didn’t need to think about Beacon Hills’s other resident psychopath.

The sky was inky and peppered with stars by the time he had left Derek’s. He was glad Scott decided to go to Gerard without him. Stiles had absolutely no desire to be before the sight of black, oozing blood dripping from Gerard’s nose and mouth. Or Gerard’s general existence for that matter. He still had nightmares of snarled mouths, unrelenting hands constricting his throat, and eyes reading unconstrained joy at Stiles’ cries and pleas.

Stiles blinked back the exhaustion that began to take over his body at the direction his thoughts had turned. The past year and a half seemed to have passed in a blurred cacophony of chaos, violence, death, and supernatural horrors. It was times like these that Stiles wished he could go back to when only one on that list applied to his life. He wanted to return to being a human, surrounded by humans, where his biggest worry was acing a test or sneaking junk food out of the grocery cart without his dad seeing or getting Lydia to notice him.

With a twisting feeling in his stomach, he recalled an echo of Scott’s words from the cross-country meet. _No._ Stiles definitely didn’t want to think about _that_ either. Instead, Stiles ran through all the important parts of Peter’s story that could possibly help them later. After a few fruitful minutes of trying to ignore the thought continuously flashing in his mind, Stiles gave up and let the thought blossom unedited.

Talia Hale. He just couldn’t shake the thought of Derek’s mom out of his head. Talia was the embodiment of strength, and of complete and utter _goodness._ It was hard for Stiles to easily lump _any_ Hale with the good guys (which he firmly believed Scott and he led into the metaphorical battle that was their lives) but Talia Hale was quite simply put, one of them.

Peter’s brief mentions of Talia were told in a tone he had never heard come from the older man, almost as if his final strand of respect was reserved only for Talia. Stiles couldn’t stop thinking about her role in the tale. She was the most powerful of alphas; she turned into an _actual wolf_ , like holy shit. Deucalion and his alpha pack _bowed_ to her. Deaton looked at her as authority, for direction.

Stiles vaguely remembered what she had looked like from glimpses during his childhood. Dark hair, olive skin, blue eyes, that reserved smile she’d offer to him in passing. He couldn’t remember any specifics about her appearance, but just that, to him she looked like a mom. His mom had interacted with her at elementary school events, Cora nearby. Stiles had never talked to Cora, she was a year older and he was a year younger, but looked even younger than that, so of course he wasn’t even on her radar.  

Even then, Stiles was aware of his mom’s health. He had clutched her hand everywhere they went, without caring about the shoves or insults bullies had thrown at him during recess at school because of it. He wondered now, his mind foggy with the flashes of memories now clenching his chest, if Talia knew. If she could smell the sickness on his mom. If the small smile she gave him had meant something else entirely. If maybe Cora smelled it as well and asked her mom about it later that night before bed. He wondered how Talia would have explained it, and if he would have been better off if she had been able to explain it to him as well.

Talia was highly respected throughout Beacon Hills. She was well accomplished; her name was heavy with importance from social circles to business headers. There was a running joke of how she managed to do it all, to be a powerful businesswoman, a charitable giver, and a loving mom to three growing kids, while looking as beautiful as ever.

Stiles’ dad occasionally had mentioned Talia at dinner, whether it was about a charity event he attended with the squad or when he reflected on the days he worked as a security guard in one of the Hale office buildings. The Hale family was a continuous thread in the background of his childhood, as they probably were for many living in Beacon Hills. A family of success, charity, and promise was bound to be a popular topic in such a small town.

Stiles had stopped caring about the Hales or anything for that matter, when his mom was permanently hospitalized. His last memories of her were poisoned by translucent skin, too-wide-too-sunken in eyes, falling clumps of hair, wracking coughs, tremors, whispered conversations spoken past tubes. He desperately wanted to see her face dimple in happiness and did all he could to make her smile one last time. Stiles remembered his childhood in blurs of tiptoeing over wires, smelling the sickly sweet scent of overtly cleaned rooms, the pester of incessant beeping, discomfort caused by stiff hospital chairs, and the ever present anxious urge to rush, to get to the hospital and see his mom, _just in case_.

He was at Scott’s when his mom died. He quickly took solace at the McCall’s after meeting Scott in the brightly lit halls of the hospital. He was hunched over by the nurses’ station waiting for Melissa to return, and Stiles had seen him through his mom’s open door. His mom and dad were talking in hushed tones as he sat on the floor playing with his set of Legos he kept stored in her hospital room. Stiles had crept out the room unnoticed and stared at Scott, head covered by dark curls, until Scott startled. A few handfuls of minutes later when Melissa returned Stiles to his parents, Scott and Stiles had become best friends and set up a play date the next day. The two were inseparable after that.

His mom had died on one of those days in between winter and spring. Stiles had picked that day to be stubborn, to be resolute with his decision to stay at Scott’s. He had spent every day that week in the hospital, continuously being pulled out of his mom’s room by doctors so they could do tests, and Melissa had time off so Scott wasn’t even there to entertain him in passing. He didn’t want to be in the hospital anymore, he wanted to be outside playing with Scott, he wanted to be like the other kids who had a healthy mom and dad who did all his worrying for him. When he had told his dad he didn’t want to go to the hospital, the first time he had ever declined a day with his mom, the look his dad gave him in return made him instantly regret it. His mouth turned in a frown, wrinkles lined his face, and his eyes filled with emotion. He looked as if he wanted to say something but decided against it. In the end, his dad was too tired to argue and agreed to let him stay, telling Melissa he’d be back before dinner.

When his dad came back that night, far past dinnertime, his eyes were hollow, and his mouth was pressed in a firm line. It had taken him many tries before the words came out of his mouth and when they did his voice was hoarse, composed of trembles and stutters in ways Stiles had never heard come from his dad before.

Stiles didn’t realize hot tears were rolling down his cheeks until a bright car headlight startled him from his reverie. He pulled into the next empty parking lot and turned off his jeep. He let his head fall back with a thump against his headrest. He squeezed his eyes closed, breathing firmly in through his nostrils and out by his mouth, practicing every method he had ever read to calm down. The faster this was over the sooner he could suppress all the guilt and pain he had stored inside, which fragmented and broke off each year to spread throughout every inch of his body. In the worst of nights, Stiles was sure it was only a matter of time until his entire being was paralyzed with grief.

He managed to slow his tears, but could not quite shake the overwhelming sadness. He wasn’t ready to go home; he wouldn’t be able to mask his emotions from his dad quite yet. But he couldn’t stay in his jeep any longer… An image flashed through his mind, causing him to start the jeep with a sudden jump, and take off down the road, the opposite direction from home.

He scaled the gate for the cemetery easily. He took the familiar path; it was easy even in the darkness, until he stood before his mom’s grave. He sat on the grass before it and like he did as a kid, tangled his fingers in the blades of grass. He was silent for a long, passing moment, his mind suddenly empty and finally at ease.

“It’s not fair.” He spoke softly, he had calmed enough that his voice lacked any tremors. “We’re only kids. We were only kids then. Scott’s dad… Derek’s family… Allison’s mom… Heather… Erica… Boyd… You.” He sighed, pulling a blade of grass up from the dirt, twirling it in his hand. “If you were here, you’d probably put it all together without me even having to tell you. You’d help us because we sure as hell don’t know what we’re doing, and you’d save the day… Maybe you and Talia would have teamed up. Like two super badass moms.” He paused, staring at the engraving on the tombstone.

 _Why do you care?_   Cora had asked him earlier that night. He had given her a snarky answer that was true but missing pieces. He cared because he couldn’t help, albeit selfishly, but to compare Derek’s situation to his own. Of course they were completely different. Obviously Stiles couldn’t relate to the whole werewolf thing or the alpha thing or the mercy killing thing or well, most of it to be honest, but he understood the emotions that came with the death (or deaths, plural, in Derek’s case) of loved one(s), and he especially understood the guilt that came with it.

He knew how it felt every morning to have your heart ache with loss, how every laugh feels undeserved, how every moment leaves you unsatisfied because the one person you want sharing it with you was lost forever. And to think Derek felt that in tenfold. He lost his first love, his entire family, two of his pack members – (“ _Losing pack is like losing a limb,”) –_ and was the survivor over and over again.

Stiles knew how bitter your mind can turn when you desperately ache to hear their voice, to see their face, and to feel their touch, but instead you're stuck with your own phantom memories of how it was years ago. And when you’re always stuck with yourself, with your thoughts, your memories, your pain, you can’t help but start to hate _your_ self for living when the others didn’t. It was painfully obvious to Stiles that he hid his hatred for himself by his incessant talking and joking. And he couldn’t help but think that Derek’s miserable brooding, perpetual lack of care for others, and general sour existence was because he hated himself more than he hated Kate or Deucalion or Ennis or Peter.

“Mom,” Stiles whispered into the air. The cemetary before him was colored in all dulled grays and blacks.  He pulled another blade of grass up and stared at it, before letting it flutter to the ground. “I’m… I’m sorry I wasn’t there.” He paused; trying to put into words what his understanding had led to inside him. “And… if you can… tell Talia I’m sorry, and that… that I’ll do my best to stop Derek from killing himself, but she should know that he is pretty freaking difficult to deal with.” Sighing, he looked up at the sky, eyes flickering across the scatter of stars.

When he looked back at his mom’s grave, a glinting light caught his eye. Stiles startled, realizing belatedly that he probably shouldn’t have gone to the cemetery alone this late at night, especially when there was a pack of alphas trying to kill everyone he knew _and_ a deranged Darach that just weeks ago was set on killing virgins (which he still was). After a heart pounding breath, his eyes could just make out the sight of a familiar face, standing behind a tree.

Derek was looking at him, eyebrows pinched… in confusion? Anger? He stared at Stiles for a moment, before walking stiffly away. Stiles remembered how close the cemetery was to the old Hale house and that Derek probably went there, the night’s events reminding him too much of what had happen to him sophomore year with Paige, and his mom, and his family, and maybe he heard Stiles jeep or smelled his scent or, Stiles cringed, heard him mention Talia’s name. Stiles’ mouth gaped open, as he struggled, trying to decide if he should shout out to Derek, but if he did would he apologize, and for what? He watched Derek’s reseeding form in silence.

He decided it was time to leave in case Derek resurfaced and tried to kill him for knowing more than he should or for just, you know, existing. Stiles looked back at his mom’s grave and gave the grass a pat in goodbye. “I love you, mom. Miss you.”

 

 

* *

 

 

The next time Stiles saw Derek was a handful of days later, long enough for Stiles to regret his comment to his mom to pass along to Talia. He still thought Derek was an impossible, brooding, act-first-think-second kind of douchebag that kept too many secrets and voiced too many empty threats, but Stiles wasn’t a liar to his mom.

Being in a room with Derek, even if it was also shared by Scott, Isaac, Cora, and, to his dislike, Peter, had been stressful enough the times he imagined it in his head. The actual event was more routine than he expected. It was a typical pack meeting, full of eye rolls, sarcasm, threats, Scott stepping in to mediate the level of moral being suggested, and of course, annoying as hell vague comments from Peter.

Derek was much more silent and reserved than usual – which was saying something. He didn’t outwardly express any anger or urge for revenge. Instead, Stiles assumed, his sullen change of character was a sign that all the emotion consuming him had turned inwards into anger at himself for again, letting those he cared for down. With a sudden jump of thought, Stiles worried that perhaps Derek was distancing himself from the pack so he would be more independent when he did attack Deucalion, making a cleaner break in case he died. Tapping out a nervous rhythm on his plaid covered arm, Stiles gnawed at his bottom lip.

It had only taken five minutes of avoidance and awkward stares on his part, until Stiles realized that Derek wasn’t treating him any differently, causing Stiles to figure he shouldn’t either. At first, he wasn’t sure how he should act around Derek. Should he act buddy-buddy like they had just shared secrets over a tub of Ben and Jerry's? Stiles decided against that because a) _Peter_ shared Derek’s secrets without his permission and b) Derek probably hadn’t eaten ice cream in years – or decades going off of his superb physique and general unhappy demeanor. But Stiles didn’t want to act like he hated Derek... because he didn’t.

Somewhere over the chaotic year and a half, Stiles had found common ground with the impossibly moody werewolf and had accepted him into the group of misfit disasters that made up his own pack. A pack, not in the fang and claws kind of way, but in the way that made Stiles’ metaphorical hackles rise and protective instincts kick in when the group was threatened. Maybe Derek was on the lower, _lower_ part of that list but regardless had worked his way on there.

Watching Derek’s eyes flash a brilliant blue after Peter joked about the importance of Boyd in the “grand scheme of things,” Stiles realized that he hadn’t hated Derek in a long time.

 

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**Author's Note:**

> i had one goal for the summer and that was to write and post a fic so yay for productivity! :)


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